Sitting on top of a dryer as my sheets tumble ‘round,
I think of how I didn’t deserve my place next to you in bed last night.
Although the first time I’d been acquainted with the sentiment, I’d still bet you know it better than I.
And that’s a pretentious thought- I know.
But these small wagers lie in nuances (the closing of the eyes for longer than usual/necessary, a sigh that breathes a second too long)
that I’ve noticed from my pillow views, only chanced to be mentioned in sonambulance- you wouldn’t like a conscious reminder.
So the sheets dry, as do the thoughts-dirtied- that spring from the mattresses’s very coils.
And I sit atop the dryer, as the sheets are battered;
a sort of metaphor.
Feeling the machine’s pressure build, I am a volcano,
this poem, the explosion.